10 Things Emma Swan Never Had (and now she does)
by effulgentcolors
Summary: In Killian Jones Emma Swan has finally found all the things she always wanted but never had. 10 one-shots, all Emma-centric.
1. A Piggyback Ride

Emma came to a stop as she saw Killian leaning against the wall next to the entrance of the station. She furrowed her brows in confusion. He had told her that he'd grab a beer with David and she had expected to see him back at the loft when she got home.

In the next moment Killian looked up and gave her a little smile, pushing away from the wall leisurely. The movement was so casual and _normal _that it suddenly hit her. He had come to pick her up.

_Emma put her things in her little yellow backpack as slowly as possible. Her shabby brown textbook, the cheap plastic pen._

"_Could you hurry up, Miss Swan?" came the obviously irritated voice of the teacher standing at the door and waiting to lock up._

_Emma's full lips twitched downwards and she dipped her head slightly so that her blonde hair fell over her shoulder and hid her little pale face. She weighed her options for a few seconds before deciding that the last thing she needed was for Mrs Greene to be mad at her. Swinging her backpack over her bony shoulder she walked quickly out of the room and marched down the empty hall with as much confidence as she could muster. _

_She kept her steady pace until she came outside, stopping on top of the school's steps. The school yard was an intense shade of green under the bright sunshine. It was full of kids running after their siblings, tugging on their mothers' arms and begging for ice-cream or using their fathers' broad shoulders for a piggyback ride. It all reminded her of a hive. Noisy and chaotic and alien to anyone on the outside. And she was always on the outside. There was never anyone waiting for her at the bottom of those steps, no one she could throw her arms around, no one she could babble about her day to. _

_Emma bowed her head, blocking out the world. She guessed it was logical. She wasn't going home hence there was no one here to pick her up. There was no home. There was no one. She made her way through the yard, trying to avoid the hive so that she didn't get stung._

"Are you alright, luv?"

Killian's concerned voice brought Emma back to the present. She shook her head and tried to blink back the moisture that had gathered in her eyes when she realized that he was now standing right in front of her, a confused frown marring his gorgeous features.

"Yeah," she said, clearing her throat and giving him a hesitant but genuine smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Yeah?" he looked at her in that way, the one that let her know that he was probably reading every thought that was going through her head right now.

She stared back. She wanted him to know. She just didn't want to be the one to tell him. It felt stupid, childish, to get so emotional over the fact that he had waited outside for her to finish work. It _was_ stupid. But that didn't make her feel any less warm inside.

The pirate pursed his lips, as if contemplating whether or not to keep pursuing the issue, but in the end he settled for coming to stand next to her and offering her his arm.

"Ready to go _home_?" he asked, putting just enough emphasis on the word to let her know that he realized the weight it carried for her. And that he felt the exact same way.

Emma felt the butterflies in her stomach twirl around in pure exhilaration. She had always preferred them to bees.

"Can I get a piggyback ride?" she asked, her voice holding just a hint of hesitation, overshadowed by the barely restrained giddiness, and her lips twitching upwards.

The man beside her lifted an amused eyebrow, cheerfulness and absolute adoration lighting up his blue eyes, before he stepped in front of her. Turning his head around, he grinned at her.

"Giddyup, princess!"


	2. Forgiveness for the Damaged

"FUCK!"

Emma shoved the pan in her hands away. A piece of burnt bacon flew out and landed on the stove, letting out a sizzling sound and making a_ wonderful_ greasy mess. Just like her whole bloody day!

First, she had overslept, waking up with a sore throat and without Killian next to her. She had dragged herself out of bed, found out that she had almost no clean shirts left, scalded herself trying to drink her coffee as quickly as possible and left the apartment in a huff, slamming the door behind her. Now, rationally, she knew that she should be grateful her pirate had woken up, made Henry a sandwich and sent him off to school on time. But she had decided that waking up without him in bed was what had started this whole nightmare so instead of being grateful she had decided to be mad. Which, of course, she had then proceeded to feel guilty about through the whole day.

The phone at the station had kept ringing and people had kept asking her about everything and anything that was definitely _not_ in the range of her responsibilities. She had been called 'princess' twice! She now had a coffee stain on her last clean shirt, meaning she no longer had any clean shirts whatsoever and was cooking in a t-shirt she hated.

Cooking. That was one way to put her disastrous attempts to throw some sort of dinner together for her and Killian since, of _bloody_ course, Regina had called today of all days and asked for Henry to spend the night at her place.

Overall, Emma Swan was not in a good mood. And the burnt remains of the bacon, which had been the last thing they had in the fridge because why the HELL would anyone bother to go to the store, were the very last straw.

She supposed most people in her place would just let the tears of frustration out. She, however, let out only a string of profanities that even Killian seemed impressed by as he came in through the door.

"Why, Swan, I'm a sailor and you almost had me blushing with that last one," he chuckled.

The son of a bitch _chuckled_.

Emma clenched her fist, literally throwing the still hot pan in the sink, ruined food and everything. He was late and he was a _bloody_ bastard and he had taught her to use that word way too often and he was _here _so she was gonna take it all out on him. She turned around sharply, ready to let him have it.

Her arm made contact with something and in the next moment Emma heard the sound of glass shattering. Looking down, she saw the odd mix of sand and glass that now littered the kitchen floor. It took her a moment but then she recognized the beautifully engraved marble parts that glistened mournfully among the mess. She had broken one of the few things Killian had bothered to bring from his ship. She watched the shattered sand clock in desperation for a whole ridiculous minute in which, against the laws of any sort of logic, she waited for it to put itself back together and make her feel like she hadn't just destroyed something that was certainly ten times as old and probably ten times as precious as her.

"Oh god," her hand flew to her mouth, eyes widening in horror and in the next second flying up to Killian.

He too had been surveying the mess at her feet and took a step forward when he finally felt her gaze on him.

Emma drew back. It was the most unconscious action she had ever performed in her life. She wasn't scared of him. The thought that she couldn't handle someone never crossed her mind. The thought that _he_ would try to hurt her never crossed her mind. She was a grown-up woman. A strong one at that. And this was possibly, probably, the person who loved her most in the world. But that move, the flinch and step back, was pre-programmed, engraved in her psyche oh-so-long ago.

_Her little hands scrambled to undo the damage that her mind had already predicted. Her tiny body lurched forward with all the energy it possessed. But she didn't move deftly enough. She wasn't quick enough. She wasn't enough…_

_The porcelain shattered on the tiled floor with a sound that embedded itself inside Emma's heart, which was beating so wildly that, fortunately, or not, she couldn't decide, it was drowning out her chaotic thoughts._

_Carried by the momentum of her movements she dropped to her knees next to the mess she had made, feeling a piece of the broken vase cut into her left knee. It went deep and warm blood gushed out of the wound. But it all felt so cold to Emma. Her hands. The floor. The look of the woman that had just walked in. Her words._

"_Ow! You little-" the woman stepped forward, careful with the broken vase but grabbing Emma roughly by the arm and dragging her up._

_The blonde girl opened her mouth to explain but the woman swatted her over the head, forcing her to draw back in surprise. Tears of pain and guilt were now mixing with tears of fear._

"_What did you do?!" demanded the large woman looming in front of her. "Do you know how much that thing costs?!"_

_Emma shook her head helplessly. She didn't. And she wanted to say that she would fix it or pay for it so badly. But she couldn't._

"_More than you, that's for sure!" went on her tormentor, getting more and more worked up as she surveyed the disaster. "It was brought all the way from India! And it is worth more money than you would ever see in one place."_

_The woman crouched down to collect the pieces, her face red with anger and the need to take it out on somebody._

"_Someone wanted this very much, can't say the same about you," she hissed, with that sick sort of satisfaction that people feel when they manage to spew their hate out into the world so that it's no longer poisoning them. _

_Or so they believe._

_Emma bit on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood from there too. She bore her punishment with no hopes of forgiveness. With no hopes at all really._

_There were many things orphans never received. Forgiveness was on top of the list and she was old enough to know that by now. There was something defective about her as it was, she didn't need to make it more so by doing things like that. People didn't want her anyway, how was being a nuisance going to help her case? She was damaged anyway. Need she damage the world around her too?_

Emma's breaths came out short, quick and irregular.

It wasn't that her alarm hadn't gone off. It wasn't that Killian hadn't been there. It wasn't that her coffee had been too hot and her laundry not done. It wasn't that people called to bother her with all sorts of bullshit. It wasn't that her stove was too hot and her bacon too easy to burn. It wasn't that the sand clock was too breakable.

It was her.

She had always been told that it was her. Her day was a mess because she was a mess.

She looked at the sand littering the floor through misty eyes. Damage bred damage.

Then Killian's boots suddenly came into her view, stepping on the broken remains, which crunched beneath his weight. Her hand twitched by her side, wanting to make him step back so he didn't do any more damage. But it really couldn't get much worse.

His hand rough hand gently cupped her chin. Slowly he made her meet his concerned gaze.

"Emma?" he enquired quietly, his voice sounding lost.

Emma pulled back but didn't completely break contact.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, eyes still wide and scared of something that didn't belong to this moment, this apartment or the woman she was, yet remained there all the same. "Killian, I'm so sorry, I-"

"Emma, it's alright," the brunette's brows were furrowed with confusion. "It's just an object."

She shook her head.

"I'm sorry. You brought it here and it was beautiful and precious and old-"

He cut her off with a peck on the lips. The kiss lasted less than a second, yet it silenced the exhausted woman, making her lids drop.

She couldn't be so defective if someone could kiss her so softly, right?

"It's alright."

He kissed her left cheek.

It was. He wanted to hold her hand even when it wrecked havoc.

"You are here."

He kissed her right cheek.

She was. She had made it here after everything, into the arms of someone who didn't see her as something too bent to love.

"_You_ are beautiful."

He kissed her nose.

Was she? She was in his eyes and they were the only mirror that mattered.

"_You_ are precious."

He kissed her temple and gave a soft laugh.

"I wouldn't dare say you are old, especially considering my own age."

Emma let out a choked laugh and opened her eyes.

If someone so wonderful could love you… did that make you wonderful too? At least for a little bit? At least while you were in the circle of their arms? Held together by the sheer power of their love?

Tears of surprise and gratitude were now mixing with tears of awe.

"I'm gonna replace it," she said, not quite sure how she would accomplish that but feeling more powerful just because of the ability to say the words.

"No need. As I said, it's just an object."

"Just because it's damaged doesn't mean it can't be fixed," she said, an eerie quality to her voice.

Killian pulled back, studying her features.

"Not everything needs to be fixed," he said after a moment, causing her heart to do something funny in her chest. "Some things are beautiful because they are damaged."


	3. Her Mug

Emma rubbed her hands down her arms, trying to chase away the chill that the racing wind sent through her. The ship creaking beneath her feet and the smells of wood and sea mingling together managed to erase the frown from her face. Even when coldness seeped into her bones the smells and sounds of the Jolly Roger always managed to put her at ease. And really this had all been her idea.

Killian had all but moved into her apartment but he still couldn't go more than a couple of days without visiting his other girl. She would never admit it out loud but at first Emma had felt a hint of jealousy. Yes, that's correct, Emma Swan had been jealous of a ship. Then she had taken a day off work that had changed all that. Killian had spent the whole day with her and Henry until they had to leave the kid over at Regina's. It was on their way home that the pirate had stopped suddenly, rocking on his heels lightly and scratching his ear in that self-conscious way she found so damn adorable. He had looked almost guilty when he asked her if she wanted to swing by the docks with him. And at the same time his eyes had looked so hopeful. Something had clicked in Emma's mind. He didn't want to spend quality time with the Jolly. He wanted to spend quality time with _her_ on the Jolly. They had spent the night on the ship and three days later when Killian had said that he was going to the docks Emma had waited an hour, swung by Granny's for a thermos of hot chocolate and welcomed herself aboard too.

Killian's smile had been so bright that she couldn't resist turning their joined visits to the ship into a tradition.

Emma didn't realize that she had reached the Captain's quarters until the door groaned slightly under her hand and her eyes found a pair of tantalizing blue ones upon entering.

"You're early, lass," he said, his appreciation of that fact evident in his voice.

It was true. She had been bored to tears at the station and had finally decided that it was Friday night and she could leave an hour early without feeling like the worst sheriff in Maine.

"Yeah, and my ass is freezing out here so feel free to start warming me up anytime."

His eyebrows shot up, a devilish smirk, that she really had to declare illegal, stretching his lips.

Emma pushed down the laugh bubbling in her throat and rolled her eyes.

"With cocoa, pirate," she said, allowing her lips to twitch upwards slightly. "For now."

At that the captain moved with what she could only label 'pirate speed', stealing a quick kiss from her cool lips. However, before she could even start reciprocating, he was off, rummaging in a cupboard for a couple of mugs, the thermos of hot chocolate already resting on his desk beside a deliciously old volume. Who knew that it would take Captain Hook to awake the book worm in Emma Swan. There was just something absolutely magical about reading fairytales that fairytale characters had written and read. Well, she supposed there were a lot of magical things in Storybrooke as a whole but those moments below the deck of the Jolly Roger with Killian's accented voice reading to her tales of princesses and pirates written by fairies and benevolent godmothers while she clutched a mug of liquid heaven… those moments had a charm all of their own.

"Bloody Hell!"

The pirate's angry outburst drew Emma out of her thoughts and made her frown down at him.

"Killian, what are you doing?"

"I can't find your blasted mug, lass. Give me a second."

Emma eyed the three cups he had already placed on top of his desk, obviously to get them out of his way, and opened her mouth to question him again when his words suddenly registered in her brain. He was looking for _her_ mug.

Oh.

_The house wasn't too big and that was probably why it was always so warm. When she had first walked in Emma had let that warmth seep in and tried to let it pull her in and make her feel at home. Yet she had always felt something eerie in the quietness that ruled over all the rooms, a warmth on the outside but a weird coldness in the pit of her stomach. It was somehow unnatural for a house that had two kids, beside herself, to be so… still. It unnerved her from the start but the girl just shook her head and told herself to stop being stupid and just be grateful she had a roof over her head. And to try to keep it this time._

_She had been in the kitchen, helping Maria, who she never even thought of calling 'mom', get some biscuits on the pretty violet plate on the counter and some tea in the cups next to it. _

_Emma smiled at the chocolate and vanilla treats she had arranged in the shape of a flower and reached over for a bright yellow mug. _

"_Hey, that's my cup!" Kate's indignant voice made Emma freeze before her fingers had even made contact with the pretty porcelain. _

_The blonde snatched her hand back as if burnt. Kate had been here long before her. _She _had no problem calling Maria 'mom'._

"_I'm sorry," she muttered beneath her breath, eyeing the rest of the options with mistrust, she wasn't sure which ones she had the right to touch anymore._

"_Here everyone has their own cup, Emma," explained Maria without looking at her, keeping her attention on the dishes. "Like a toothbrush. Nobody else uses it but you."_

"_Oh," Emma glanced at the cups before her again, this time with longing. "Can I… Can I have one?"_

_At last Maria turned to look at her, the slight confusion on her face lasting just a second before she replaced it with what Emma thought was a smile that must be hurting her face._

"_But, of course, sweetie," she said cheerfully, pointing to a green cup with something grey that probably should have resembled a dragon painted on it. "This is Mike's but you can choose whichever one you want from the rest?"_

_The blonde studied the cups with great attention, biting her lower lip while contemplating her choice as if it was the most important one she had to make in her life._

_Maria cleared her throat after a few minutes. The slightest trace of annoyance evident on her features. Emma felt her heart squeeze and quickly pointed to another green cup with a white handle. She regretted her decision almost immediately. The cup looked too… ordinary. Like something that would be broken sooner than expected. But she didn't dare say anything, shaking her little head and smiling at the thought that she even had her own cup._

_It was two weeks later when Emma came down the stairs to see a social worker sitting on a chair opposite Maria. The woman had short red hair and she was drinking from Emma's green cup. The moment she looked up the girl just knew. She should have known from the moment she walked through the door, should be used to it by now. But she wasn't. Without thinking she marched towards the table._

"_That's my cup! Why are you letting her drink from MY cup?!"_

_There were yells and her name spoken in harsh tones and her little hand being tugged away with frightening force. And Emma had been right. The cup had never been meant for a long existence. Soon it was just a handful of green pieces scattered over a brown carpet, like leaves sensing the winter's approach and falling submissively to the ground._

"Aha!"

Killian's triumphant yell snapped Emma back to the present. She realized that she had sat in one of the chairs next to his desk, which she was gripping tightly.

"Here you go, luv."

Emma's eyes were glued to the streaming mug that he was handling her. It was a dirty sort of yellow, almost golden. Its rim was a crimson colour and there were streaks in the same shade on its handle. The colours were so warm, they looked like they were sliding over the porcelain like honey.

"Swan?" Killian gazed down at her with undisguised worry.

The sheriff's eyes followed his hand as it laid her mug, _her_ mug, down and he kneeled before her. His hand found her knee, starting to rub slow circles on it, and finally drawing her gaze to him. He inclined his head to the side as if trying to read her and the lines on his brow became even more pronounced. Emma instinctively reached out to smooth them out.

"What's wrong, lass?"

Her right hand slid down, cupping his cheek and her left reached over, grasping the golden mug, her fingers shaking slightly. She caressed Killian's stubble absentmindedly while feeling the small imperfections over the mug's otherwise perfectly smooth surface. There were five of them, they were like the smallest pebbles, trapped below the honey that had been spilled over the suddenly precious object, and she liked to think that if she connected them they would form a star.

"Emma?" Killian prompted her again, making her eyes focus and come to rest on the scar on his face.

_The most beautiful things are made even more beautiful by their imperfections._

Damn, she was cheesy.

But her eyes were kinda full, her head was buzzing, Killian's gentle touch was gradually calming down her racing heart, her fingers were still trembling over the porcelain in her hand and there was a warmth deep inside her that was chasing away all the coldness from the vicious wind outside. She could see his silver mug out of the corner of her eye, resting next to the modern thermos that looked so out of place in his cabin. Their cabin?

Emma's eyes crinkled up, her lips stretching in a shaky, genuine smile.

"I'm alright," she whispered and then cleared her throat and tried to blink away the moisture in her eyes. "I'm glad you found my mug."

Killian furrowed his eyebrows again, this time in wonder rather than worry.

"Stop doing that!" Emma laughed softly, smoothing out his skin before she let go and, grabbing both of their mugs, made her way to his bed. "Grab that book and come join me, pirate."

Killian shook his head and got to his feet, giving her one of those adoring looks that let her know that some parts of her were still a mystery to him and he loved unrevealing them one by one.

"Come on, the chocolate is getting cold."

But it wasn't really. The mugs keeping the warmth inside with their own unique brand of magic.


	4. Smell of Home

Emma was pretty damn sure that she hadn't been this exhausted since her last magic showdown but she took the steps two at a time anyway. She was supposed to be home two hours ago but instead she had been out looking into a 'burglary' which had turned out to be the shop owner forgetting to lock up. And why _actually_ check whether or not something was missing when you could make the sheriff drive all the way and look for 'clues or something' for an hour and a half before realizing that nobody had stolen a bloody thing and you were the one who had left the place open!

She made a mental note to thank David for all the help at the station because this one week he had taken off work was shaping up to be the longest one in her short carrier as a sheriff.

Finally reaching the door to the apartment, Emma let out a sigh of relief, grabbing the doorknob impatiently. The second she walked in her senses were assaulted by the tantalizing smell of melted cheese and heavily spiced tomato sauce, making her draw back in surprise before her eyes landed on Killian, who was leaning over Henry's shoulder and studying what appeared to be his maths homework. A part of her took a moment to mentally fist pump the air because she seriously hated trying to make sense of the multitude of charts and calculations in his notebook and because, frankly, Killian's 300+ years of navigation and God knows what else needed to captain a ship made him a much better option, if Henry wanted to pick up his grades on that particular subject.

The larger part of her though was still frozen in the doorway, feeling as if the chilly air outside was trying to nudge her forward and the enthralling smells were trying to draw her in.

Killian finally looked up.

"It's about bloody time, lass," he grinned at her. "Imagine how late you are that the lad has actually finished his homework and I have managed to produce something from among your electrical appliances that may actually be edible."

_Emma felt coldness seeping into her back as the wall's stone surface dug into her bony shoulder. She continued leaning against it anyway. Her eyes were closed, trying to block out the nearly deserted street and her head was swimming with scenes she had never actually seen play out. She inhaled deeply once again, filling her lungs with the chilly air and her nose with the wonderful smell coming from the window above her._

_It wasn't that she didn't have anything to eat. The money in her back pocket would soon enough go into the hands of the guy selling hotdogs on the opposite side of the street. And she knew that they probably tasted about as good as that hotdog will. Because it wasn't the food she craved._

_Her attentive ears picked up the tinkering of pots as she took another deep breath and her imagination went to work again._

_The hard wall was replaced by a soft mattress. She was lying on her back with her feet in the air, her toes drawing nonsensical shapes on the wall as she turned the page of her history course book. No. She was flipping through an album of photos. Or, better yet, a magazine, trying to choose her prom dress and wondering if she could get away with going a little over the limit her father had set._

_There was the barely audible click of glasses against each other as her mom tried to carry all three at the same time while setting the table. The smell of cooked meat slightly overpowered that of the vegetables and crawled inside through her slightly open door._

"_Dinner's ready!"_

_Emma's eyes snapped open. Her face was a mask of carefully controlled frustration and resignation. This was when the daydream always ended. For some reason the woman's voice was all wrong and it shattered her little make-belief world into pieces. She blinked slowly but the pieces couldn't be put together because new voices had joined in and they were all wrong and Emma's eyes were beginning to sting so she took the crumbled bills out of her pocket and made for the hotdog stand._

"Mom?" Henry's face swam in her view as he stood up and went to wash his hands. "Are you alright? How was work?"

She just stood there for a few seconds, making some sort of affirmative noise and trying to collect herself. She jumped slightly when she felt Killian guiding her through the process of taking off her jacket and nudging her towards the table with a warm hand on her lower back. She heard him kick the door shut behind them, effectively blocking out the cold. Her hands took hold of the chair he had pulled out for her, leaning on it for support as she watched Henry fill three glasses with orange juice and listened to Killian pulling out dishes from the cupboard.

"Sorry, luv," the captain's voice floated from the kitchen. "I'm afraid I haven't mastered anything from your realm more complicated than spaghetti just yet. And Henry wasn't much help."

"Hey," immediately came the indignant reply from the dark-haired boy. "I was doing homework!"

"That you were, lad. I think there's still hope for your geometry skills which is more than I can say for your mum's," Killian stopped in front of the table, putting down the dishes and the glass pan overflowing with spaghetti, and grinning at her before he noticed her unfocused gaze. "Emma?"

"Is it ready?" she asked, her voice sounding strange to her own years, her stomached coiled so tightly as if it was readying itself for flight, waiting with trepidation.

"Umm… I believe so?" Killian frowned down at the food, obviously uncertain of his abilities to operate a stove.

"No, just…" Emma bit her lower lip, a hint of a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. "Say it."

The boys exchanged a look, both confused and yet obviously unwilling to deny her or judge her strange mood.

"The food's ready? Dinner's ready," said Killian, watching her carefully and trying to guess what was expected of him.

Even hesitant as it was his voice was _just_ right.

The captain's shoulders relaxed and relief washed over his face as Emma finally looked up, a brilliant smile lighting up her features.


	5. Dreamcatcher

"You left!" Henry's voice was like a slap, leaving a burning mark on her, his eyes full of accusations. All for her. And she deserved them. She deserved each one. She always ran. She wasn't good for anything else. It was the only thing she knew. And then he was turning away from her and she couldn't let him, she couldn't leave him again. She made to follow but the very ground beneath her crumbled and then she was falling. Her hand was slippery and she was losing her grip on Killian. Killian? The second she realized she was holding onto him, holding on for dear life, their positions were reversed. He was holding onto her. But her hand was still slippery and now it was shaking too and_ he was going to fall_. No. No. No. Killian. Her fingers dug into flesh, drawing blood, but it was useless. Useless. Helpless. Hopeless. Killian! God no. Not him. And then he was falling and before she could follow (she _needed_ to follow) the portal closed, leaving her behind. Useless. Helpless. Hopeless. Alone.

Emma sat up in her bed, drawing in desperate, shallow breaths. Her forehead was sweaty, she shoulders were shaking, there was blood on her palms from where she had dug in her fingers while dreaming. While having nightmares.

_She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't had nightmares. They were always different. Even her nightmare refused to stay, to give her the comfort of repetitiveness, of familiarity. They were always different but ended the same – with her all alone._

_Then she met Neal and she thought that things would change. That the nightmares wouldn't come while she was lying next to him among the rumpled, unwashed sheets of a "borrowed" hotel room. _

_But the nightmares did come. They welcomed in the new face. His face. Leaving her, telling her she wasn't enough, reminding her she would always be alone, forgetting all about her, running and not looking back to see if she would follow. But when she woke up he was there, sleeping soundly next to her. And she took comfort in that even if she couldn't take comfort in him. He never woke up and she made sure she was completely quiet. _

_Usually a few deep breaths and a quick hand over her tear-streaking cheeks did the job. But sometimes it didn't. Sometimes she had to sneak into the bathroom, making sure to open and close the door without making any noise. And then it was just her and the mirror, mocking her with the dark circles beneath her eyes. Because she was supposed to be happy, dammit! She finally had somebody. She finally had love. She finally had… a home. Even if it was constantly changing, collapsing and the rearranging itself. A hotel room, the back of a car, a bus stop, a cheap hostel. It didn't matter. He was there. She had someone. _

_But her nightmares didn't go away and when she saw that dreamcatcher she thought… maybe. Maybe it would chase away the nightmares. Maybe it would at least give her a sense of comfort. Maybe it did hold some ancient magic. Maybe he would wonder why she needed it…_

_But he didn't wonder. And then he wasn't even there. There were just bars, letting her frightened gasps escape into the world. There was no chasing away the nightmares. No sense of comfort. No magic. No one. _

Emma's heart beat wildly in her chest, trying to escape. Trying to run. But she was done running, dammit!

"Emma?" Killian's sleepy voice pulled her out of her thoughts and her head snapped to his side of the bed.

She hadn't meant to wake him, she hadn't made a noise. But he wasn't mad. He had just woken up.

A silly voice in her head whispered that his heart had woken him up because hers needed it.

He was running his hand over his eyes and shaking his head as if trying to shake off the cobwebs of his own nightmares. His hair was sticking everywhere and his t-shirt was pulled to the side, baring his collarbone.

Normally that picture would have sent all other thoughts out of her mind and spurred her into crashing her heated body into his. But right now her mind was still stuck on the image of Henry turning his back on her and Killian falling through that portal, leaving her forever, and her body was cold, shaking with the aftershocks of a loss that was somehow too real.

"Emma, what's wrong?" his voice grew stronger as he pulled himself into a sitting position, reaching out for her.

His eyes were deep pools of concern, finding the hopelessness in her eyes, recognizing the helpless lost girl. He knew that girl. Just like he knew the savior because he had fought beside her. Just like her knew the lover because he had touched her like no one else ever had. Just like he knew the mother because he had come to love her son. Just like her knew the daughter because he had reunited her with her parents. Just like he knew the stubborn sheriff because he had taken all her walls down. He knew the lost girl too because he had woken up in the night to comfort her.

He knew all of her. He knew Emma.

His warm fingers sought out her palm, finding it shaky and sweaty and his touch was her undoing. Killian was real, Killian was hers, Killian was still here. She let out an involuntary whimper, squeezing his hand and turning her body towards him.

"Oh, luv," he wrapped his left arm around her and drew her to him, letting go of her hand only to cradle her head into the crook of his neck. "It's going to be alright."

Emma knew that was probably the most meaningless phrase in the world yet in that moment she could have sworn it breathed life back into her soul. Or rather it breathed life into her soul for the very first time. It warmed her from the inside, it stitched back together another little piece of her heart.

She had waited her whole life to have someone whisper those six magical words into her hair, to be there when she woke up, to embrace her and pull her close. Now she didn't have to be alone, didn't have to keep quiet, didn't have to run.

He chased the nightmares away. There was comfort. There was magic. There was Killian.

He was her dreamcatcher.


	6. Sundays

Her eyes flutter open, her heart speeding up steadily and her muscles gradually waking up along with the rest of her. She has the faintest taste of cherries and chocolate in her mouth, it's somehow both sweet and sour and definitely sticky but she thinks that it certainly beats morning breath while remembering the cake she had for desert last night. She licks her lips unconsciously and hopes there's still some in the fridge.

Next thing she registers is the slight tingling between her tights. Oh, yeah, she is definitely sore from last night and in a way that can also be blamed on the cake. Funny thing really. Killian's libido goes off the charts when he has a bit too much chocolate. That may or may not have something to do with the fact that she purchased two cookbooks filled solely with desert recipes a few weeks ago. She is pretty convinced last night's cake is her greatest accomplishment so far. And her pleasantly aching muscles seem to agree. Speaking of which…

Emma twisted around in bed, finding Killian still sound asleep on his side, and grinned from ear to ear. It had taken awhile but between her and Henry they had managed to drive home the importance of oversleeping on Sundays. The pirate hadn't given up without a fight of course. He had gone from suggesting he get up, go for a run, and get back in bed by the time she was bound to wake up, to tempting them with the image of copious amounts of delicious food ready and waiting by the time she and Henry woke up. But Emma could not be swayed. And after a month or so Killian Jones had started to see the benefits of not leaving their bed before 10 am on a Sunday or 'lazy day' as he called it.

Glancing at the clock she saw that it was already half past ten and a smug look took over her face. She had finally corrupted the prim lieutenant or the pirate captain or whatever part of him insisted on getting up once the sun had risen. Unable to help herself, Emma reached over, running her hands lightly through Killian's hair, she shifted closer to him, molding her body into his, and started running her foot up and down his leg. It took less than a minute for him to press back into her and start fighting his way to consciousness. A lazy grin, which words could not explain how much she adored after taking her sweet time to beat that laziness into him, tugged at the corners of his lips and he leaned forward to nuzzle into her neck.

Emma let out a soft sigh, wrapping both her arms around the man next to her and tugging him as close as physically possible. However, probably because of her own sluggish reflexes in the morning, she had underestimated how quickly Killian could become fully alert and ready for action and before she knew it the sheriff found herself on her back, arms still locked behind her pirate's neck who was now leaning over her, eyes wide open, a toothy smile overtaking his whole face, and hair in complete disarray. She honestly could not decide if he looked absolutely adorable or absolutely sinful. The man had the talent of being both in the exact same second so she settled on gorgeous. Mmm, yeah, that always applied.

"What would you like to do on this fine 'lazy day', princess?" he whispered against her lips, before pulling back a little to nuzzle her nose with his own and look her in the eyes.

For a full three seconds Emma was afraid that she was having a heart attack because something incredibly startling was happening to her heart. It was speeding up and squeezing and trying to jump right out of her chest all at the same damn time. She was pretty sure it wanted to jump right into the hand of the smug bastard smiling down at her. That smile. She thought that it wasn't the way his right hand had buried itself in her hair and was gently untangling the knots it found, or the way the very sunlight coming though the windows seemed to be hypnotized by the blue of his eyes and rushed to gather inside it, or even the way his body was pressing into hers, making her already warm skin reach alarming temperature. No, she was convinced that it was that damn smile that did her in. So warm, so open, so loving, so everything. So _hers_.

"Anything," she whispered in a kind of awe that she was pretty comfortable blaming on the mellow morning and the warmth that engulfed them. "Everything."

_She doesn't want to do anything. That's the first thought she has every damn Sunday morning when she hasn't been able to find herself some sort of a job the day before. And if that's not sad, she doesn't know what is. But why dwell on that when there were already so many reasons prompting her to write a 'How to lead the suckiest life ever' bestseller. Except it won't become a bestseller, of course, because that would entitle something good actually happening to Emma Swan._

_She turned over and groaned into her pillow. For the last two months she felt like all she had been doing was feel sorry for herself. Dragging her body out of the cocoon of blankets, which somehow continued to fail as providing her with warmth, and into the badly-lit bathroom, she shook her head. No, every _Sunday_ for the last two months she had felt sorry for herself. She really, really hated Sundays. She always had and knew she always will but it had taken an over-concerned employee on the check-out counter in the local supermarket to really draw her attention to it._

"_Preparing for a lazy Sunday?" the chipper brunette grabbing her cereal had asked._

_Emma made a disgusted sound at the memory as she splashed cold water on her face. It wasn't so much the phrase she hated but what people pictured when they used it, what they pictured out of experience. Sleeping in, wrapped up in soft blankets, or better yet – warm arms, having a breakfast that basically covered your calorie needs for the whole day while watching cartoons or F.R.I.E.N.D.S re-runs, getting out of your pyjamas, only when going for a drink with some friends or for a walk with the one whose arms you had woken up in, sharing a cake with _someone _in a cozy café or trying to keep your ice-cream from dripping all over your hand while burying your feet in the warm sand, attempting to bake some sort of pastry and having dinner with your family, and _hating_ the fact that the day was over. You know, all those things she could picture alright but had no idea what they actually felt like._

_Emma poured the milk over her cereal, grabbing a spoon and not bothering to turn on the TV as she rested her chin on the counter and watched the processed crap she was about to eat soak up the milk which was a day away from its expiration date. She was tired. Not lazy – tired. And not physically tired like you were after a long run or good sex. Not even tired like you were after a long day of work. Not tired in the 'I-need-to-put-my-feet-up-and-have-a-beer' sense. Not tired in the 'I-need-a-weekend-away' sense. No. She was tired in the sense that even though her back hurt from the position she was bent in and her teeth were painfully grinding together because of the way she was putting weight on her chin, she could not find the energy to move. She had no desire to take a walk, watch a movie, read a book, bake a cake or even just lift her fucking chin off the fucking counter._

_She was just so. damn. tired. Tired of this cereal, this apartment, this town, this day, this year, this life. She was tired of being Emma Swan. _

Killian's light laugh made Emma's eyes refocus on him and her heart did that frightening, and oh-so-wonderful, thing again.

"Well, I don't know if we can fit _everythin_g into one day, Swan, but tell you what," he bent his head, kissing her softly and nipping at her lower lip. "You draw up a wish list and whatever we don't get to, will be on the agenda for tomorrow."

Emma smiled up at him, hands sliding from around his neck to cup his cheeks and run her thumbs over his warm skin.

She knew how it all felt now, expect for the part where everybody hated it when the weekend was over. She still didn't get that.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. They were all her favourite now. She woke up next to him every single morning after all.


	7. The Best Medicine

Waking up was painful. Her muscles were not only aching, they were _burning_. Her head was absolutely killing her, throat sore, eyes literally stinging beneath her tightly squeezed lids. Her mouth tasted like hell. And Emma was pretty sure she needed a new nose because this thing she just woke up with was absolutely useless. And then there was Killian. Waking up in her pirate's arms was by far the best way to start the day. Except today. Today Emma could swear she was suffocating in Killian's usually comforting embrace. Somehow she was shivering from the heat trying to escape from her body.

Emma's eyes snapped open. On second thought, maybe it was last night's dinner that was trying to make a break for it.

Jumping out of bed (and damn it all if that didn't make her head spin), the sheriff rushed towards the bathroom, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet and emptying her stomach.

Oh, fuck no!

If there was one thing Emma Swan hated more than anything in the world - it was being sick.

_It was 8am and she was pretty sure she was dying. Emma had been sick before but this was not something she had ever felt. She could not turn her head, let alone drag herself to the bathroom. And given the cubicle she lived in, that was saying something. _

_Emma knew perfectly well that nobody actually liked being sick but she also knew that foster kids saw a whole different dimension to that lovely predicament. It was one thing having to stay at home, snuggled amid a dozen blankets and marathoning your favourite cartoons while your mum force-fed you chicken soup. It was a whole different deal to have to go to school despite the fact that your head felt like it was going to explode and your very limbs were turning on you because nobody believed (or cared) that you were running a temperature and at least at school you'd get some food which to present to your body as a peace offering. And Emma would give everything to_ not_ know that the only thing worse than throwing up in your bathroom was throwing up in a school's toilet._

_So the only thing she was grateful for was that this nightmare was hitting her now when she at least had a semi-stocked fridge and her own bathroom. Which, admittedly, weren't going to be of much use to her, if she couldn't even reach them._

_It was 10am when she could no longer stay put because she was sweating without the benefits of a sauna and suffocating in her own body. She stumbled the whole six feet to her bathroom and was damn glad she managed that just by using the wall for support and didn't have to crawl there. A shower, she needed a shower. _

_The first highlight of her day came fifteen minutes later when she lost her last meal in the shower._

_The second one followed an hour later when her head started to spin and interrupted her efforts to make a fucking sandwich. She had to lie down and the only thing that saved her apartment from getting burned down was the awful smell of burnt bread that permeating even her congested nostrils._

_The final and probably brightest highlight of Emma's day included something she hadn't experienced in a very, very long time – a breakdown. But as her tears slid down her still burning cheeks and she choked out sobs and coughs one after the other she thought that at least there wasn't anyone there to see it. There never was._

As she desperately tried to catch her breath, Emma felt a cool hand gather her hair and gently pull it back.

Oh no. No, no, no.

How long did you have to be in a relationship before your too-gorgeous-for-his-own-good boyfriend saw you bent over the toilet seat? Never? Never sounded good to her.

"Fuck, Killian, get out!"she managed to croak before she started shaking with dry-heaves.

Well, at least there wasn't anything left inside her, she thought as she felt the pirate behind her rub his stump gently up and down her convulsing back. It took her awhile but she eventually managed to get her breathing under control, unconsciously leaning back against Killian's solid chest. She felt him let her hair fall over his shoulder as he brought his hand to her forehead, making a disapproving sound in the back of his throat at the feeling of her hot skin and moving on to gently run his fingers over her clammy cheek.

When he eventually moved away, letting her lean on the bathroom wall, Emma felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. And tried to convince herself that the latter wasn't overpowering the former. She really didn't want him to see her like that after all and-

Her pep talk was cut short by a soft wet tower that Killian wiped her face with before moving on to her hair.

Great. Now her eyes were watering. Probably because of the temperature. Yeah, that excuse would do. Damn, she was pathetic and his lips, pursed in concentration as he ran the cloth over a strand of blonde hair, his pinched brows, drawn down by concern, and his beautiful blue eyes, filled with tenderness, were seriously not helping her case.

"I have puke in my hair," she rasped out after a few seconds and could have sworn that it was the voice of her five-year-old self that had decided that it was necessary to announce that fact to her pirate.

"Well… yes," replied Killian, his lips twitching up with amusement. "That's kind of the point of the exercise, lass. Unless you would rather I help you into the shower?"

The very thought made her head start spinning again. Of course, the sudden force with which she started shaking her head probably didn't help either.

"Don't think I can," she groaned.

"Swan, did you just say you can't do something?" he gasped in shock but before Emma could muster up a glare he was already scooping her up and moving back towards their bedroom. "Right, I'm taking over here and you, sheriff, are on bed arrest."

"Kill-"

"Captain's orders," he declared, laying her back down and tucking the blankets around her. "I'll be right back, lass."

And with a soft kiss against her forehead, he was out the door. After that she could faintly hear him and Henry talking and that clatter was definitely coming from the kitchen but her ears were ringing and she just couldn't be bothered.

"Great going there, Emma," she muttered to the empty room. "Just put that Mother of the Year trophy right next to the Best Girlfriend Ever one."

_Her nose was running and she had run out of tissues. An hour ago. Which was why she couldn't postpone her trip to the kitchen any longer._

"_Get your infectious little ass back in bed," came the gruff voice that she had been desperate to avoid._

"_I just-" she started, hands trembling slightly. _

"_Last thing I need is your bacteria all over my kitchen!"_

_Right. Now if only she could drag herself back up the stairs without throwing up._

When Killian woke her up, she had no idea how long she had been asleep. Frankly, she hadn't realized she had fallen asleep at all.

"Sorry to wake you, luv," his smooth voice invaded her memory-and-sleep-addled mind. "But Henry said you should take some of these, if your temperature is high. Which he said we should check with this."

"Killian, I don't n-" but he had already brandished the thermometer out as if it were a sword and was shoving it in her mouth and fixing his gaze on the clock on his phone.

Emma rolled her eyes only to discover that even that small action hurt but after a few seconds she was kinda enchanted by the way his eyes were glued to the numbers, his face a mask of concentration as he followed the time.

It turned out that she did have a temperature and that Henry had shown Killian where she kept the med supplies. And he had, of course, come prepared. Two pills and a tall glass of water (woah! She had been thirsty!) later, he was asking her if she wanted more blankets, pillows, anything.

"I'm fine," she said, making his eyebrow shoot up to his hairline. "Well, I've been worse."

"I don't believe that's the definition of 'fine', Swan."

"Where's Henry?" she croaked, prompting him to head out for another set of pills as his voice floated back to her.

"Made him a sandwich and send him off to school," he came back and plopped a red pill on her tongue with a very serious 'suck on it' that almost had her spitting it in his face. "The Queen is going to pick him up and look after him for a couple of days so the lad doesn't catch whatever you have."

"Mm, good decision," she nodded, taking his hand, that had been rubbing her knee over the blanket, and placing it on her neck, trying to relieve some of the heat. "Wait!"

Emma shot up so fast Killian stumbled back and she had to put a hand over her mouth, feeling like the water she had just drank was already coming back.

"School? It's Sunday!"

"I'm afraid Monday didn't get your memo to stay put, luv," Killian said with an obliging smile, helping her lay back down.

"I have to be at work," she whined but didn't make another move.

Stubborness was one thing but Emma knew even she had her limits. And there was no way she was going anywhere today.

"I know. I called your father. He said he is more than capable of handling things by himself and if he was in dire need of help, he would call me. He wanted to send Mary-Margaret over but with Neal-"

"No, no. Thank youuuu. It's more than enough that you are here to get acquainted with this lovely side of me" she said, mustering up only a half-sarcastic tone.

In the next moment Killian was leaning over, lips pressing to the top of her head.

"God, Killian, no!" she tried her best to move away from him but her muscles really weren't cooperating. "Don't do that! I haven't even showered."

"Stop being ridiculous, Swan," he said, planting two more kissed on her hair for good measure, ignoring her groans of protest. "Now, I know you live on that hot chocolate of yours but I believe tea is the way to go in this case."

The pirate got up and was heading towards the door before her voice stopped him.

"Thanks for taking care of Henry," she whispered, trying her best to make the simple sentence sound like more because he deserved_ so much more_. "And me."

"Of course," he said, a slightly confused frown on his face as he went out the door.

As if there wasn't any other option. Emma let out a little choked laugh. Oh, there was. She had been privy to the other option her whole life. The one where you didn't try, you didn't help, you didn't care, you didn't stay. You got out as soon as the going got tough. The option Killian apparently wasn't familiar with.

_Her throat was killing her. Which obviously was somehow related to her common sense because she grabbed the scorching cup of tea with both hands, immediately feeling it burn her skin and dropping it on the tiled floor. The hot liquid spilled everywhere and as she lurched forward her foot slipped. Falling down, her elbow caught the counter, making a sickening sound, but before she could concentrate on the pain in it Emma landed on her lower back, letting out a strangled yelp. She would have a big ass bruise tomorrow but right now she had to focus on blinking the angry tears away. She had a mess to clean and a new tea to make and why did every inch of her hurt so damn much?!_

Killian was back just a few minutes later, a steaming cup of tea in his hand and a water bottle under his arm.

"Here you go, luv," he said, settling both on her nightstand. "Careful, that's bloody hot."

"Oh, trust me, I know," she grumbled, grabbing the water first and trying to restrain herself from drinking it all at once.

"Feeling any better?" he asked, hand already settling on her forehead.

"A bit," murmured Emma, unconsciously leaning into his touch as he caressed her flushed face. "I'm sorry."

"Swan," Killian's eyebrow jumped up with his voice. "Are you actually apologizing for being sick?"

"No, I-" she scrunched up her face before sighing in defeat and reaching for her tea. "Kinda. I just… you can go to the docks or meet Robin or something. I should be-"

"Emma, I'm not going to just go out and have fun _or something_, while you're sick."

His tone was so offended it made the blonde cringe a little.

"I'm just saying that I can take care of myself," she said defensively. "You don't have to spend all day here."

"I see," he replied, getting to his feet, and the disappointment tugged on her heart so fast and so viciously that it almost made her gasp. "Well, now that you have been so kind as to point out to me that I don't _have to_ stay here, we can agree that I simply _want to_ and let this go, correct?"

And with that Killian slid on his side of the bed, pulling her now slightly shivering body (she hated playing this hot-cold-hot-cold game with her body) to his and wrapping his arms around her.

"Fine," Emma sighed, sounding like she was making a huge sacrifice and feeling more than hearing his answering chuckle. "But you can't kiss me."

"Says who?"

At least rolling her eyes was starting to hurt less.

"Says the fact that you will get sick, if you do, moron."

"Ah, princess, I will endure any disease for the taste of your lips," he murmured in her ear.

"Oh, God! Killian, shut up," she said, laughter colouring her words. "I swear, you are so cheesy sometimes."

"You love it."

"Nah," she said with a secret little smile, finally letting herself snuggle deeper into his embrace. "I just put up with it because you're comfy."

"Says the girl who wanted to kick me out five minutes ago."

"I didn't want to kick you out. I'm just not used to…" Emma let out a soft sigh, closing her eyes against the truth in her own words.

"I know, lass," Killian's voice was equally soft but his arms held her tighter. "But you're going to have to get used to it."

"Mm," Emma let her head drop on his shoulder and could already feel the healing spell of sleep wrapping around her. "If I must."

_She dreamt of a room. It was small but warm. So warm. And soft and safe and alive. It was the safest she had ever been. And it was hers. She didn't know how she had learnt that but she was sure of it. And there was this lovely music playing. More like a voice really but it was so deep and caressed her in a way no other music ever had. And it smelled like the ocean. And home. It smelled like home. She didn't know how she knew that either since she had never really had one. Had she? Nevermind. She did now. Somehow… she was sure of it._

This time waking up wasn't half as bad. Only problem was Killian was no longer lying next to her.

"Killian?" Emma called out, cringing at her own small and scratchy voice.

One day and she was already acting like a spoiled little brat.

"Seriously," she groaned in disgust. "It's not his fault you have a lifetime of coddling to make up for."

"No, I believe not," came Killian's voice from the doorway. "But I would very much like to take part in rectifying that injustice, if the lady would allow it."

Emma would have loved to hide under the covers in pure embarrassment right about now, if she wasn't too busy trying to force her nose to tell her what was on the tray in his hand. Suddenly, her stomach decided to make its displeasure and _emptiness_ quite known. Because her humiliation today apparently hadn't been complete.

"Aye. I believe I foresaw your need for food," Killian said with a pleased grin, settling the tray on her lap.

Emma looked down at the bowl of soup and the grilled cheese sandwich and another cup of tea. Her eyes shifted back to Killian whose grin had dropped and who was now scratching his ear nervously.

"Now, I'm not sure that's what you should have when you are sick but I called Granny an-"

"You called Granny?!"

"Aye," he was going to take his damn ear off, if he kept that up. "The woman is quite intimidating but I bloody well needed someone to walk me through the ugh… cooking process so…"

By now Emma just couldn't keep the grin off her face, his obvious discomfort only making the whole thing more endearing.

"Killian," she said, making him look her in the eyes.

Ah, those eyes. She was pretty sure that blue alone could heal her. Aaand she was picking up his cheesiness. Great. And she couldn't even make herself regret it.

"You are wonderful. You are wonderful and I love you," she said, voice light for the first time today, eyes slightly misty and lips stretched into a full-on smile by now.

Killian's eyes widened a little, a hint of disbelief but mostly wonder and awe lighting his pupils as his lips twitched up in response.

"Oh, Swan, if you think I'm not stealing a kiss now," he grinned, removing the tray and leaning towards her to catch her lips.

"No, you idiot, you'll get sick," she said, trying to squirm away. "And I'm icky. And my breath is… Enough to say that if you kiss me now I don't think you'll ever want to do it again."

Of course, nothing could deter a pirate on a mission. Especially not her pirate. And as his lips found hers she groaned against him for all of two second before giving in.

"Wrong," he said as he pulled back for a moment before going in for another kiss to prove exactly how wrong she was.

"You are disgusting," Emma said with a laugh as she finally managed to force him away. "I'm disgusting and wanting to kiss me makes you disgusting."

"That's not what I would call it but fair enough. I'd gladly be disgustingly in love with you."

"You're ridiculous. It's not my fault, if you're sick tomorrow."

"I'm sure I'll survive," he replied with a smile.

"Yeah," murmured Emma, her eyes becoming softer by the moment as she tugged on his hand to draw him into a hug. "I'll make sure you do."

"See," Killian's hand reached up to tangled itself in her hair as he felt her squeeze him close. "We'll just take care of each other."

"No more surviving on our own?"

"No more."

She hummed in contentment, until she felt him bury his face in her hair.

"I'm still disgusting."

"Sure you are, Swan."


	8. A Second Heartbeat

Emma stared down at the little plus sign, motionless for a full minute, face completely devoid of emotion, until she looked up and saw her reflection in the mirror. She didn't think she had even seen her eyes so wide. She took in a sharp breath, gaze falling back down to the pregnancy test that she was now clutching like a lifeline, the plastic stick shaking along with her hands.

"Oh, God!" Emma's hand shot to cover her mouth, her eyes were beginning to sting and the fingers against her lips just _wouldn't stop shaking_.

She moved suddenly, throwing the test in the trash and leaning on the sink, gripping its edges so tightly that it was a wonder her fingernails didn't sink into the cold and hard surface. Her breaths were coming out loud and shaky. She reached forward, twisting the tap with a jerky movement, the ice-cold water started flowing over her unstable fingers as she tried to gather some of it and splash it over her face as she tried to stomp down the sudden jolt of excitement and wonder and _pure joy_ that shot through her. Because that was not how it worked for Emma Swan.

She was pregnant.

_She was pregnant._

_Coldness slithered down Emma's back as she stared up at the dirty white ceiling. She was pregnant and in jail. She thought that most people would cringe, thinking about all the physical strain of having to endure pregnancy behind bars, but she knew that was nothing compared to the absolute and constant feeling of loneliness._

_Her morning sickness didn't last long but while it did, it made the feeling count. She would lurch out of bed early in the morning. Cold and disorientated. Tired and sick. Scared and alone. Always _alone._ Her knees wouldd hit the floor and for the first few months of her pregnancy there were always bruises on them. She would always remember exactly _where_ she was about half-way through getting rid of the scarce contents of her stomach and that flash of knowledge always made the second half of heaves last that much longer and tear at her insides that much more sharply._

_Her mood swings unnerved her. Or rather – the possibility of them. So she did her best to control them, to conceal any and all emotions. She wasn't happy, she wasn't sad, she wasn't angry. And then she was all at once, yet she remained numb, trying to hide everything that could be hidden from the harsh world around her. But sometimes, at night, she would wonder if the baby could feel that world anyway and the thought would choke her all through the night._

_Her aversion to certain foods was sometimes the worst. There were things she couldn't even look at. Only nobody asked her what food she could and could not stomach. She had heard a long time ago about women's strange cravings during pregnancy. She didn't know if she had any of those. Because most of the time her whole being was just screaming _food_. Some kind of food that the very smell of didn't make her whole being sick, that was all she wanted. Most of what she was served didn't fit the bill. But Emma tried to force it down and then she tried to keep it in. The baby didn't have taste buds yet, right? It just needed sustenance and she had to give it to him. So she pinched her nose between her thumb and forefinger and tried to swallow almost without chewing because she _had to_. But dammit she wanted to know if she would have put chocolate on cheese._

_Her memories and daydreams, which were more like nightmares, had the power to drive her to the brink of tears about three times a day. So she blocked them out. If she looked back, she saw Neal and she felt so acutely _alone, _she felt like someone was physically digging a hole inside her chest. And then if she went further back – foster home after foster home. Disappointment after disappointment. Rejection after rejection. And she was a few months away from submitting the most precious thing she had ever had to the same faith. Being alone. If she looked forward, she saw her kid, eyes blazing with accusation, with betrayal, with anger. But beneath the anger there was pain, so much pain, and desperation, and sadness. And loneliness. And that was so much worse. So she tried not to look, neither back nor forward. She tried to stay in the bleak present. _Alone.

When Killian walked through the door, the breath backed right into her lungs, slamming inside with a force that made her let out a soft gasp, hoping, praying he hadn't noticed. Because she wasn't ready. She was never going to _be_ ready. But she had to tell him and she had decided that she was going to do so. Tonight. No waiting around, no drawing out her misery. What was the point? The sooner she knew - the better.

Yet she knew he knew. She had send Henry to Regina's, the quietness almost oppressive as Killian tried to strike up a conversation and his words kept bouncing off her like a tennis ball off a training wall, tempting him to try again even though he knew he wouldn't be able to succeed. She had made way too much food, something to push around her plate for way too long, something to offer him another serving of and then another, just to keep their mouths full and their minds blank. She had avoided his gaze all evening and had started on the dishes the second they had finished eating, gently but firmly refusing his help. He knew something was up. He knew she was ignoring him. He knew not to push.

Eventually the kitchen was spotless and Emma faced the living room, gaze focused on the back of her pirate's head where he was spread out on the couch, reading, waiting. She moved forward, trying not to shuffle her feet, and perched herself on the very edge of the couch.

"Ready to tell me?" came Killian's steady voice as he put his book aside and turned around to face her fully.

His face was the definition of patience and anyone else might have scoffed and thought it a mask but Emma knew better. She had witnessed too many of Henry's sailing lessons. Had exploded after a long day at work one too many times. Killian Jones could be the most patient man in the world. When it came to them, his patience was infinite and right now Emma was convinced she had done nothing to deserve that.

She wanted to ask him to give her more time. She knew that he would. She was afraid he was going to worry about it the whole time she was trying to gather her damn courage.

She wanted to tell him that she loved him. She knew that he was well aware of that. She was afraid he would feel pressured, as if she was blackmailing him, trying to emotionally shackle him to her.

She wanted to hug him. She knew he would tighten his arms around her and make her feel safe. She was afraid she would lose her nerve if she felt his touch and remembered that it might be gone tomorrow.

She wanted to run. She knew he could come after her. She was afraid he won't anyway.

She wanted to tell him that she was sorry they hadn't talked about it, that she would understand if he wasn't happy, that she wasn't giving this child up because it was _him_ and her and she just couldn't, that he could be as involved as he wanted, that he could be as _uninvolved_ as he wanted.

She wanted to tell him too many things.

"I'm pregnant."

Killian's eyes widened, shooting to her stomach and seemingly gluing themselves to it. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Thirty.

"Killian?" she hated her voice. She hated this little girl's voice. The voice of a girl that had been all alone in a cell, murmuring apologies to her unborn child every night before she put all her strength into _not_ crying herself to sleep.

"Are you-" his voice cracked, eyes shooting back up to hers and searching, and _searching_, and there was a mist of desperation in the deep blue of his gaze, desperation to know.

Everything else was hidden, held back for the moment because he feared it might be _too much_, too much for her to see and above all too much for him to feel.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes," she replied immediately because he had about half a minute and then the tears in her eyes were going to spill over.

"Emma."

The way he said, no, _breathed_, the two syllables knocked any and all thoughts right out of her. There was only him. Arms drawing her closer, hand tangling in her hair, guiding her to him so that he could kiss her forehead and her brows, and her cheeks, and her nose, and her chin, and her collarbone. And then he was half laying in her lap and lifting her shirt and peppering kisses all over her still flat stomach and his half a minute was up and there were tears flowing freely down her cheeks but she couldn't brush them away because her fingers were shaking now and desperately tangling themselves in his hair. Her grip was finally stronger, more sure of herself, as she drew him up, nose rubbing against his own, lips just a breath away, desperate to make contact. But she needed to hear it.

"Are you happy?" her voice cracked at the end and in all her life Emma Swan had never heard herself sound so desperate and so hopeful at the same time, had never placed so much, _everything_, on someone else's happiness.

And in that moment there was nothing she wanted more than to make Killian happy, to ignite in him the spark that had been fighting for life inside of her from the moment she had seen that little pink '+'. The spark that only he could now teach her how to give life to.

"Emma," and there it was again, that way he said her name - like it was a prayer, like it was the source of life itself, which given the situation maybe shouldn't have shocked her so much but it _did_.

It did because nobody had ever looked at her like he was looking at her right now. Like she was larger than life, brighter than the sun, more brilliant than all the stars in the sky, more magical than the ocean's depths.

"Emma, if this is happiness then I have never been happy before in my damned life because this-" he glanced down again, drawing a deep breath and resting his hand on her abdomen, softly, _so softly_. "This is the brightest moment of my entire existence and, I swear to you, it's enough to illuminate the utter darkness of it all."

Her sob got swallowed by their kiss as Emma finally allowed her lips to follow the gravity that ruled over them. The gravity that always seemed to pull her to him.

* * *

Her second pregnancy was a string of disagreements.

Emma Swan thought that morning sickness kisses were the grossest thing in the world. Killian Jones didn't agree. She thought that he would get more than his fair share of chances to be up at the crack of dawn _after_ she had actually given birth and that holding back her hair and massaging her shoulders was not more important than sleep. He didn't agree. She thought that having a soft rug in the bathroom (which got wet quicker than she did upon seeing Killian come out of the shower) just so that she didn't spend every morning with her knees pressed to the cold tiled floor was ridiculous. He didn't agree.

Emma Swan thought that her mood swings were getting absolutely out of hand and everyone should just keep their distance. Killian Jones didn't agree. She thought that going from a giddy girl, bouncing around and discussing baby names, to a spoiled and very _angry_ princess, throwing dishes at the father of her child, was absolutely horrible and he should just leave. He didn't agree. She thought that jumping him the second he walked through the door, ordering him to get inside her _again_ and basically initiating sex at most inappropriate times and places was absolutely disgusting and he should just start telling her _no_. He didn't agree.

Emma Swan thought that her taste buds had experienced a short circuit and their madness should not be encouraged. Killian Jones didn't agree. She thought that the only thing less appealing than the potato mash with _red pepper and cinnamon_ she seemed addicted to was the sight of her spreading in on crackers and eating it in alarming quantities. He didn't agree. She thought that it was absolutely ludicrous for him to go out in the middle of the night, looking for the ice-cream flavour she was currently craving, especially considering the fact that there were at least three different brands in the fridge. He didn't agree.

Her pregnancy was a string of disagreements. And she loved every moment of it.

Because when she looked back now she saw her parents' brilliant smiles when she told them the news, Henry's fist, pumping the air in excitement, and Killian's eyes, shining like never before, she heard David's congratulations as he drew Killian in for an (as manly as possible) hug, Henry's words tumbling over in an enthusiastic monologue about all he would teach his sibling and the way Killian whispered her name, she felt the softness of Mary-Margaret's fingertips, stroking her arms and hair with tears in her eyes, the warmth of Henry's embrace seeping through her skin and from there right into her heart and Killian's lips pressing reverently against her abdomen.

And when she looked forward she saw tiny pink fingers wrapping around Killian's larger ones, wild blond curls tumbling over bright blue eyes, shining with mischief, she heard laughter, the dull thud of wooden swords hitting each other and Henry's theatrical groans of pain, she felt the warmth of a small, soft body, wrapped in her embrace, and strong, secure arms wrapped around her own silky skin.

And when she came back to the present she had the very blue of the sky and the sea staring back at her from those eyes that she knew would follow her anywhere, that _she would follow anywhere_. And she was never alone.


	9. The Best Fuck (and so much more)

Raising the rating to a M because, frankly, this one is all about sex (with some heavy emotion thrown in there). Hope you enjoy it!

* * *

She's had a shitty day and she is late. She is late and Killian must have already dropped Henry off at Regina's without her and he would have even put Liam to sleep already and probably fallen asleep himself and she hates it. Hates the paperwork she left to pile up for two fucking months that kept her at the station till dark and away from her family and _ugh_.

She bends to put the bottle of red wine in her hand on the floor and retrieve her keys. She thought she'd make it up to Killian but now she feels stupid because she knows from experience that one is not usually full of energy and _in the mood_ after an afternoon of taking care of a demanding toddler and supervising a hormonal teenager. She hasn't heard from him since she send him that 'having a day of hell' text five hours ago and she knows there's every probability that she'll be drinking alone (Mom of the Year and #1 Wife awards here comes Emma Swan!).

The thought makes her pause, the bottle in her hand making her skin itch.

_She is twenty-seven and she wants a good fuck._

_He is good-looking (a week later she already doesn't remember the particulars), wearing a nice shirt and scanning the crowd. She doesn't care either way. She just doesn't want someone whose breath smells of cigarettes or vodka. _

_He doesn't smoke and he's drinking whiskey. He'd do._

_She throws back a few shots to even the playing field. He doesn't offer to pay. She wouldn't have let him anyway._

_They end up in his apartment. She's not sure whether he pushes her into the wall on purpose or is just unable to control his stumbling. Their make -out session lasts for a couple of minutes and is nothing to write home about. He pushes at her shoulder at one point and she actually laughs in his face but the sound is hollow. After that she takes control. If she wants some pleasure, she'd obviously have to get it herself. She pushes him on the bed, reaches beneath her skirt and shimmers out of her panties before straddling him, not bothering to take off any more of her clothes. She takes a condom out of her bra and can't care less about the smirk he gives her. She knew what she was going for tonight. And she is _always _prepared. She unzips his pants and pulls him out. He is big and there's a proud smirk on his face that makes her roll her eyes. She wastes no time, rolling the condom on his cock and lowering herself on him. It's exactly what she wanted. A good fuck. She climaxes bare seconds before him and catches herself before she falls on top of him or anything. She climbs off him less than a minute after he is finished and leaves him to clean himself. Once she has her panties on and has retrieved her purse from the floor in the hall she walks out the door without a second look and goes home with a bottle of red wine in hand._

_They never see each other again. He used her, she used him._

_She feels dirty._

_She is already broken. He certainly doesn't fix her._

Emma shakes the hazy memory away and finally inserts her key in the lock. Grabbing the damn bottle off the floor, she enters the apartment as quietly as possible. Apparently not quiet enough.

The second she is inside she ends up against the door, a firm chest pressing against her breasts, a warm hand settling on her hip and a pair of lips finding hers. She instantly melts into the kiss, opening up and letting Killian plunder her mouth, nibbling at his lower lip and trying to draw him back as he pulls away and drops his lips to her collarbone.

"About bloody time," his words are muffled into her neck and she cannot help the smile that lights up her face as she feels them breathed against her skin.

The skin that is again being treated to hot open-mouthed kisses seconds later, making her smile drop into a little gasp, her hand reaching up instinctively to tangle in his hair and keep him in place. She wants to grab his hips too, pull him closer and feel him, but the stupid bottle is still firmly clasped between her fingers and she lifts it up slightly, waving it around.

"I thought you might fancy a drink," she gasps out as she feels him scrap his teeth against her pulse point.

"Oh, I do," he said, the grin audible in his voice. "Though I had something slightly different in mind."

In the next moment her neck is bare and the air rushes in, sticking to her wet skin and making her shiver a little. It turns into a full-on trembling as she hears and _feels_ Killian drop to his knees in front of her (his body dragging deliciously against her own on the way down). His fingers pray the bottle out of her grasp, settling it on the floor and her hand in his hair.

She grins, looking down at him with pure hunger and adoration in her eyes. She loves it when he does that, when he encourages her to let loose, to guide him (even though he needs very little guidance) and take her pleasure.

His hand makes short work of her zipper and he takes her jeans all the way down, making her step out of them so that he can trail kisses from her ankles all the way to her inner tights. Once there he slows down and rubs him scruffy jaw against her sensitive skin, making her whimper.

"_Killian_," she tries to grumble but it comes out too much like a moan and all it generates is a deep chuckle that she feels spreading from her tights and reaching right inside her.

He is teasing her. _The bastard._

She pulls sharply at his hair, almost shoving his face where she wants it. But he seems in a merciful mood, determined to turn her day around or at least make up for it (since the day is almost over). The next thing she knows he had two fingers inside her and his mouth is firmly attached to her clit and in an embarrassingly short time she feels that sensation that is so distinctly _Killian_.

She has had orgasms before, _of course_. But never like this. Never like she does when she is with him. She thought orgasms started between your tights and, if you're lucky, ended with shocks throughout your whole body. She had been wrong. Or not so much wrong as not fully informed. Because with Killian they always started from deep inside her stomach, like an enormous butterfly, rather than a whole bunch of normal ones, unfolding its wings. They started when she looked down at him and tugged at the hair between her fingers, her butterfly squeezing its wings even closer because _he was stunning _before springing free because _he was hers_. And then it flew through her whole body and _beyond it_.

She had thought sometimes that it was because there were so many universes (there were few things she couldn't imagine anymore) and in each one they were together and when he made her fall apart it was like she was falling in a hundred worlds all at once.

He is the best fuck she has ever had (in any world or time, she is sure). And then he is so much more.

An hour later they are still there, his back is against the front door and she is in his lap, sated, boneless and absolutely refusing to move, her breasts rubbing against the hair on his chest, nose nuzzling his neck and inhaling the smell of them.

They sip wine straight from the bottle. He tells her how his day went, she tells him how about hers.

Her day sucked.

He fixed it.

/

Her mind never strayed while she was with him, while he was all around her, surrounding her, filling her, loving her. But afterwards, while she was lying half on top of him, one leg wedged between his, her left arm thrown over his waist, her right hand stroking through his hair leisurely, she could sometimes feel the memories creeping up on her.

_She's seventeen and she is in love with him. _

_Sometimes there's a little nagging voice at the back of her head, the voice that always said 'they don't want you' when she laid her eyes on another foster family. It doesn't really say anything but she can feel it pitying her. Thinking (how can a voice in her head _think_?) that she is launching onto something that she has decided to call 'home' just because she doesn't have a clue what that actually feels like._

_She doesn't. But Neal does. Or he did, once upon a time. So he had told her. And she had believed him. And if he knew what home felt like… he could help her find it with him. Right?_

_Only it doesn't feel quite like home when they are together for the first time (her _very_ first time). They are in the back of his (their? The fact that she's not sure doesn't sit too well with that voice that is keeping alarmingly quiet) car and he's on top of her and it's the middle of summer so they're both sweating and she feels just a little claustrophobic, and it's so oppressively hot at first she doesn't even realize what is happening. He pushes her dress up and her underwear aside and starts teasing her until he decides that she's sufficiently wet. He kisses and licks her neck and she feels pleasure shoot experimentally through her but her mind is occupied with 'how not to fall off the damn backseat?' and it doesn't really let her enjoy it for long. When he starts pushing forward she gasps, tensing and instinctively pulling back but in the next second he is right there. Kissing her lips again and again and murmuring 'babe' and 'It's me'. And some part of her wants to ask who _she_ is (Who is she to him? Who is she in the grand scheme of things? Is she anyone at all? Is she anything?) but most of her wants to just be with him and be his and _belong _so she kisses him back and gets lost in the feeling of being in somebody's arms and having all their attention focused on you and she almost forgets what they are doing until he pushes forward again. She feels a slight burn and notices him stopping suddenly, his eyes widening a bit and _oh_. Did he think she had experience? Does he- But the look is gone soon enough and he pushes the rest of the way in and she winces a little but then his voice is in her ear telling her that 'this is going to feel good', to 'just relax'. She does eventually. The slight pain is almost overshadowed by occasional bursts of pleasure. They do nearly fall off the seat at one point and he finishes shortly after that and she's not quite sure how good that was for a first time but she loves him and he loves her so it was alright… right?_

_They never use a condom. He trusts her. And she trusts him. (She would later snort at that with so much bitterness it nearly chokes her.) _

_She ends up pregnant._

_She ends up broken._

"Sweetheart?"

Killian's voice draws her back to the present and she lifts her eyes to meet his gaze. He is frowning down at her, a slightly confused look on his face. She realizes that she has frozen up against him and exhale softly, drawing warmth from his body to thaw her muscles and resuming her stroking, fingers carding through his silky hair.

"I'm here," she murmurs, inching forward to plant a soft kiss against his lips.

"Aye," he smiles at her, hand moving to brush some hair out of her face as his stump winds up across her waist, pulling her closer. "And you're all mine."

She wouldn't have been able to push down her smile even if she wanted to. She is and she knows it. She knows who she is now, knows where she belongs, knows that she matters.

He moves above her, his hand trailing down her neck and palming one of her breasts as his mouth turns its attention to the other. His stump trails down her waist and she aches into him, her own hand skipping over his toned stomach, lower and lower until she can grip his length and pump him a few times before she tugs him forward lightly. He hisses against her nipple, biting down gently in admonishment but his lips are spread into a smile. Her moan sounds suspiciously like his name and in the next second he is kissing it right off her lips. He settles himself against her entrance and teases her just for a few seconds before entering her slowly. Her breath hitches and she wraps her arms around his neck, drawing his forehead down to hers. Her name - a litany against her flushed skin. Once he is buried deep inside her, she stills for a second, mind jumping to protection before she remembers that condoms kinda defeat the purpose of trying for a (second) baby and she giggles against his lips. He automatically smiles back at her, his eyes shining because she is happy and really that's all that matters to him. She wraps her legs around him and urges him forward. And like always it's the most intense experience of her life (second only to the birth of her two sons). Each of her senses is working on overload, drawing from him and giving back with the speed of light, the speed of love perhaps. She hears his hot skin slapping against her own, their passion like a living force between them. She tastes him on her tongue as he slips his tongue between her lips, her need making her greedy for more of him even when she knows she has _all of him_. She feels his stump brush her tight, his vulnerability making her heart squeeze sweetly in her chest. She sees his blue eyes flash up at her as he lowers his mouth to her nipple, their connection cracking like electricity in the air between them. His tongue flicks out, teasing her pink bud and she both moans and laughs. She will never be over how _fun_ this is. How the devotion between them, the power of their love, doesn't take away from their freedom, quite the opposite. She teases him about missing her 'Liam breasts' and feels his laugher reverberate through her whole body and trigger her own again. His hips stutter against hers and then he is going faster, harder, and her giggles turn into his name, coming out of her in shorts pants until she is falling, every particle of her body his. She meows and scratches at his back, urging him on and latching onto the sensitive spot just below his jaw, teasing it until he comes apart above her, his groan getting buried in her hair as he collapses on top of her, her arms immediately wrapping tight around him and holding him there, heavy and satisfied and _real_ above her.

They lull each other to sleep with soft caresses and even softer words. He holds her and she holds him.

She ends up pregnant with their baby girl.

She ends up with another piece of her heart set back in place.


	10. A Home

**A/N:** So here it is. I just wanna say that this has been one of my favourite things to write and certainly the most emotional one. If you enjoyed the ride half as much as I did, I couldn't ask for anything more. Thank you!

* * *

Emma parks her car in front of the garage, eyeing the gate like it's a wild bull ready to charge her. The staring contest continues for a full minute before she sighs, deciding that she is indeed too lazy to get her car in and kills the engine. She reaches over to the passenger seat, grabbing the bags full of Chinese (it's Friday so she can let it slide and promise herself that she'd do some baking during the weekend because it's been awhile and she likes the smell of flour and eggs in her kitchen and the sight of Liam trying to help and ending up with melted chocolate all over his nose and fingertips and she knows how copious amounts of chocolate affect _Killian_).

"Mm, yes, definitely chocolate soufflés tomorrow."

_She got out of jail a month ago and here she is, with nothing but the clothes on her back and the yellow bug parked in front of the coffee shop she is sitting in, seeking refuge from the cold February weather._

_Emma wraps her arms around her cup of hot chocolate, which is a luxury in itself so she tries not to look at the display of different cakes and cookies and pies, gaze sliding to the table to her right against her will. The girl's giggles and the boy's sloppy kisses have been irritating her ears for the last half an hour and if it wasn't fucking freezing outside, she would have left 29 minutes ago._

_She feels an absolutely baffling combination of pity and envy as she watches them split a piece of chocolate cake between themselves. Going so far as to feed each other. Are those people for real? _

_She truly pities them, doesn't even need to look at them really, she can tell them right now how it's all going to end, how it always end. But she envies their delusion. _

_Sometimes she wishes she was still deluding herself too. Still believing that happily ever after existed, that there was a home out there waiting for her._

She crosses her lawn quickly, eyeing it critically and making a note to herself to have Killian or Henry cut the grass, depending on who gets on her bad side during the weekend.

It hits her out of nowhere. She has a lawn. A beautiful house with a huge green lawn and two amazing boys to torture with it when they get out of line and… _she has a lawn, ok?_ Emma Swan never thought she would have a lawn. Ridiculous as that may sound to anyone else, she feels the full weight of it, settling comfortably in the pit of her stomach.

She's lost in her head and maybe she's not paying attention and thus has barely opened the front door when her son barrels into her, nearly knocking her over.

"Woah, kid!" the teenager promptly rolls his eyes at the endearment but doesn't slow down, one foot already out the door. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Out," he mutters, shuffling his feet, obviously anxious to be gone.

She would be amused, if she wasn't 100% in Mom Mode as Henry himself calls it. Looks like she had a candidate for the lawn already.

"Care to be a bit more specific?" she lifts an inquisitive eyebrow and her son rolls his eyes _again_.

Who the hell did he get that from? Oh, right. Nevermind.

"I'm meeting Grace and I'm already late," he says, glancing exasperatedly at the phone in his hand.

"It will be dark soon."

"Mom, I'm almost eighteen years old. Come on! Dad said I can go!"

"Oh, did he?"

As if on cue she feels Killian's arms wrap around her from behind and his chin comes to rest on her shoulder.

"Aye," he rasps in her ear, sending Henry a wink that she's probably supposed to pretend she didn't see. "Get a move on, lad. It's bad form to keep a lady waiting."

Henry's grin outshines the sun setting behind him.

"See you tomorrow!" he shouts back merrily, already a good ten feet away. "Love ya!"

"Wait. Tomorrow?"

Her son is already too far to hear her reply so she turns on Killian who has the decency to look sheepish.

"Told him he could spend the night at Jefferson's."

"You-" she stands gaping him for a few seconds, clearly at a loss for words.

Truth be told, she isn't mad or anything. She's more than comfortable with Killian settling things like that with Henry without consulting her. She might be a little jealous though. She learnt about Henry's relationship quite some time after Killian and she thinks she has every right to 'bloody pout about it' for a few more days.

"You are so mowing the lawn!" she says finally, giving herself a little satisfied nod before brushing past a clearly bewildered Killian.

"I'd apologize, love, but I'm not letting the boy woo a lady through his bloody computer," he replies defensively, following right behind her.

She's about to make some comment about his own wooing techniques when a ball of movement and pure energy launches itself at her.

_She gets up on the stage but doesn't bother to scan the audience. There's nobody there for her. Never is. She is used to it by now. It's just a stupid Christmas concert and she can get through it. She _can_._

_But then she makes the mistake of looking off to the side and she sees the girl that sung before her, jumping from the last step and right into her mother's arms. Her ponytail swings merrily as her mother smiles at her, all pride and encouragement. The girl starts talking and gesticulating enthusiastically._

_For a second Emma forgets the first verse. Tearing her eyes away from the happy sight, she takes in everybody's expectant faces, focused on her. Her palms start sweating. She doesn't know where to look, doesn't know who to ask for help, whose gaze to search for encouragement. There's no one there. Not for her. But then the words come back to her and she takes a deep breath and pushes through._

_She is rather proud of herself for making it to the end without a hitch, enough so as to let her excitement show as she walks through the door, the door she has been walking through only for a couple of months, later that night. _

"_The Christmas concert went well," she says tentatively, trying to keep her smile in check._

_She takes the lack of response as encouragement._

"_I had a-"_

"_Food's on the kitchen counter."_

_And with that she's alone and a couple of minutes later there's some banging upstairs. She doesn't know what's going on. Something more important than her, that's for sure. The excitement inside her dies like a tiny flame with a bucket of ice cold water poured on it. _

"Mommy!" Liam puts his arms around his mother's neck as soon as she picks him up. "I have g'own an inch! One inch! And I watched Annabelle when Daddy helped Henry with his homewo'k and I talked to G'anmama on the phooone. Daddy said we talked for 'a whole bloony hour' and he talked to G'ampapa and we going to have a piiic-nic tomo'ow!"

Liam is in a phase where if you don't stop him he would talk your ear off and Emma just beams down at her son as she settles on the spotless rug in front of the couch.

How on earth the house is always so clean after Killian has been looking after the kids all day she would never understand. Emma knows _she_ always leaves the place looking like a hurricane has passed over it. But her captain runs a tight ship. He is an indulging father but he has taught his boys what they need to do to qualify for 'best mates'.

He got Henry to actually fold his clothes before putting them away! She is convinced the man is unstoppable!

She mouths 'picnic?' at him, unwilling to interrupt her son's excited babbling, and Killian just rolls his eyes.

"Your father said that he hasn't spent a decent amount of time with his grandchildren in forever and that I was gonna turn them all into pirates without his knightly influence."

Emma tries to swallow her laugh. Between the order Killian maintains at home and David's constant attempts to be a 'cool Grandpa' she is pretty sure that it's her father's influence they should be worried about.

"Annabelle?" she asks as Liam, tired of bouncing on her lap and filling her in on every detail of their day, runs off towards his room.

"Exhausted. She was crawling around all day like there were ogres chasing her," replies Killian with a proud grin, plopping down next to her and drawing her into his side.

"And thank you for that image," mutters Emma, shoving him lightly and only receiving an amused chuckle in response. "I'm more than happy with our children never seeing anything like that outside of their storybooks."

"Mm," he nods in agreement, nuzzling her neck and making her whole body tingle. "Did you get my text? I gave up on getting dinner ready on time when Henry cracked open his geometry textbook again. Wasn't sure if your phone wasn't dead."

"I have three kids. And you. My phone is never dead. I got Chinese. Think I left the bags in the hall when the teenage tornado struck."

His laugh is deep and warm and makes her skin flush as his mouth, leaving a couple of sloppy kisses in its path, makes its way to her ear.

"Well then, go get your daughter, I'll warm up her purée and set the table. I think I've exhausted the little buggers enough to put them to bed early. And then," he bit down on her earlobe. "I'll put _you_ to bed."

Now for _that_ she might consider turning off her phone.

_Sometimes she passes through some park or another and notices a young family. Two kids, sometimes three. She feels the horrible pull in her stomach and drops down on the nearest bench, eyes glued to them._

_She always thinks about how it wouldn't have worked and she doesn't know if she does it to convince herself that she didn't miss out on anything good or because she genuinely believes it. She thinks it's a bit of both but it doesn't really matter – the images come unbidden anyway._

_She pictures Neal, coming back late, always late, from a dead-end job he hates, and secretly blames on her and the kid. She pictures their son, crying and holding his arms towards her. But she has to set the table and Neal is already in the shower and don't kids cry all the time anyway? She pictures them sleeping with a foot of space between them. Too exhausted to reach over, let alone do anything else. She doesn't even entertain the idea of another kid._

_It's a miserable life that takes your freedom away. That's what she thinks._

_And then the kids on the playground laugh and she watches their father put his arms around the beautiful brunette that must be their mother. It doesn't look miserable. And if what she has is freedom… well, she'd like to exchange it for some of that or get her money back._

Emma slips into the nursery, her whole face lightening up when she lays eyes on her little girl.

"Hey, baby" she whispers softly, leaning over the beautifully engraved crib. "How was your day, mm? Did you have fun with the boys? Did they listen to you?"

"Mmaa!"Annabelle squeals happily, lifting her arms towards her mother.

Emma still isn't sure if that stands for 'mama' or 'Emma', she is ecstatic about it either way. Though she's pretty sure Anna said it so early only because Killian won't stop repeating both words to her day in and day out. Liam said 'Da-da' when he was barely seven months old and while Killian tries to be inconspicuous about it she knows perfectly well how set he has been on teaching Anna to say 'Ma-ma' first. Her adorable _wonderful_ man.

"Maaa!' her baby girl cries out again and Emma is sure there's an authoritative note in her voice.

"Alright, alright," she laughs, lifting the little girl into her arms and kissing her forehead. "Come on, Daddy has some carrot-y mess for you."

_She wonders sometimes what her little boy would have liked and disliked. She doesn't want to but it seems that she can't help herself. And so, almost a year after giving her baby away, Emma finds herself in the baby food section of her local supermarket. She fingers the little bottles, the tiny jars, a faraway look in her eyes._

_She wonders if somebody is choosing her son's dinner right now. Wonders if he's gonna spit it out, making a mess and demanding something more suitable to his baby taste buds. A horrible feeling settles in the pit of her stomach at the thought that he might get yelled at if he does._

_A woman stops next to her to pick up a peas purée. The kid inside the stroller she has parked on her right is a dark haired little boy and the second his big brown eyes focus on Emma, she has to get out._

_She goes back the next day and buys the peas purée. Eating it alone over her sink, with a shaking spoon and tears in her eyes, she decides that her little boy definitely doesn't like that one. That __supposition__ knowledge only makes her eyes sting that much more._

"Swan?"

Emma blinks, finding Killian in front of her, arms extended to take their daughter from her.

"I got her, go get Liam," she says, smiling down at her baby girl, and he hands her the little jar he warmed up.

She's sitting on the table, waiting for Annabelle to finish making bubbles so that she can offer her another spoonful, when Killian comes back, their son bouncing on his shoulders and laughing his little ass off.

"Mommy, I want a fo'tune cookieee!"

"Liam," Killian cuts in before she can proceed to promise her boy anything he wants. "Manners, lad."

She hides her amused grin in Annabelle's golden locks as her little boy immediately straightens his shoulders, glancing down at his father before looking back at her.

"May I get a fo'tune cookie…"

"After…" Killian prompts him and Emma bites her bottom lip so hard she thinks she might taste blood.

"afte' I eat my chicken?"

God, she loves them. She knows she is a good mother but Killian takes parenting to a whole different level sometimes. He never yells or threatens. She doesn't even think 'lecturing' is the right word. He just guides them. Be it Henry or Liam. She thinks he might have some trouble with Annabelle, who already has him wrapped around her finger, but then again so do the boys and yet somehow he knows exactly when to indulge them and be at their beck and call and when to put his foot down and set them straight.

He sets _her _as an example more often than she is comfortable with, something that she doesn't have in common with Henry, who, she swears, grows a couple of inches every time Killian tells Liam to 'watch how his brother does it'. But she has learnt to control the light blushes his praise causes and, frankly, she does the same thing with him so she tries not to complain too much.

Her husband's phone pings next to her.

"Can you get that, lass?" he says distractedly, balancing a plate of fried rise on his left forearm and one full of Gong Bao Chicken in his right hand while trying to supervise Liam's handling of the Chow Mein.

She's almost too distracted by the sheer cuteness that is her boys to hear him but when she does a teasing grin slips over her lips.

"You're not worried it might be one of your other _lasses_?"

"Unless you taught Anna how to text in the last ten minutes I think I'll be alright," he says with a pointed look and she can't keep down her satisfied hum.

The text is from Henry.

_you're the best! tell mom I'll make it up to her. she gets the right to three embarrassing questions when I get home_

Home.

It jumps at her right out of the bright screen. _Home_.

They all use the word every day but suddenly her senses are attacked from all sides with it and Emma feels the breath back into her lungs.

The smell of vanilla and cinnamon coming from her girl's soft hair, the sound of Liam's giggles as he wrestles a piece of chicken into his mouth, the sight of his oh-so-familiar blue eyes flashing in victory, the feel of Killian's fingers, prying the spoon out of her hand and scooping up the smallest bit of rice and offering it to Anna, who wiggles excitedly in her lap, reaching towards her father.

She's home.

It catches her completely unprepared – the absence of the little lost girl. She reaches inside, looking, searching, going deeper and deeper, but she's not there. She's gone. Just a memory.

"Love, are you alright?"

She lifts her eyes to meet Killian's, soft and loving and just a tad concerned and so _so_ blue.

"The best I've ever been," she replies softly, bending her head to kiss her daughter's hair without taking her eyes off him for a second.

She is home.

/

(Later that night, as she is lying half on top of Killian, boneless and warm and satisfied in every way possible, she feels him tense beneath her and the movement doesn't send her into a fit of panic, into a game of second guessing herself or straight to the 'is that the moment he leaves?' question. She knows that moment's never coming. So she just shuffles a little bit closer and holds him a little bit tighter and kisses his collarbone and asks him to let her inside his head as he has let her inside his heart.

The ramble that he starts on is adorable and confusing all at once. All about Henry being off to college soon and how Liam is already doing so many things by himself and how Storybrooke has been quiet for awhile and how he does still have a chest full of gold in the basement and how he can't stop thinking about when they were little and how Annabelle would really need a partner for sword practice who is her own size. She swears if both his arms weren't wrapped tightly around her he would have scratched the spot behind his ear bloody by the time she cuts him off with a kiss.

But when she pulls back his brows are furrowed and she can tell he is just so damn nervous. He wasn't that nervous the day he fell down on one knee and asked her to be his forever (as if she wasn't already).

And then he tells her. And, honestly, Emma was certain there was no way she could love this man more. And she was so wrong. Because at that moment she feels like she might implode with the way her heart is growing, desperately racing to adjust itself to the adoration unfurling inside it.

All she can do is nod. Nod and kiss him again and again, telling him how much she loves him, how it's the best idea he's ever had, how he is the best father in the world, wonderful and amazing and bloody brilliant. And that last one makes him chuckle and helps calm down the blush spreading all over his scruffy cheeks.

It really is the best idea he's ever had.

She's no longer a lost girl. It's time she helps another one find her way home. )

* * *

I normally don't ask but this fic holds a very special place in my heart so I'd love to know what you thought of it. :))


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